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For twenty years, I hated Ford for leaving without a reason. Without caring he left me drowning in sadness . . . alone. Turns out, he cared more than I ever knew. Carried more than I ever knew. The same way I made choices like I was standing in a burning building, so did he.

Tears fill my eyes. I should have chased him. I should have made June drive me straight to his parents’ house or his apartment at college the second I didn’t see him standing at a trailhead waiting for me.

Reading the whole thing again, my life becomes a heaping pile of shoulds. Even if what Glory said about him feeling guilty is right, he’s lugged all this with him for all these years. I’ve always thought I should have done more; Ford called the cops in an attempt to do just that. Zeb died anyway.

I move to the next paper—a printed article with a young woman’s face in a photo. She’s pretty, young. Blonde with a smattering of freckles on her cheeks. The headline: “Local College Student Killed by Drunk Driver.” The article names Riley Vander as the driver—Wren’s mom. None of the other names are familiar, but there’s an inkling like I know them as I read.

Michelle Hill was survived by her mom, Emmeline, and brother, Michael, in their hometown of Ledger, North Carolina.

I suck in a sharp breath:Riley killed someone from Ledger?

The names mean nothing to me, but knowing the small town, I’ve probably at least seen them. Ford too.

Finally, the last item, a small envelope, my name written on the outside. I peel it open; it’s dated from April.

Scotty,

I’m writing this with a sore jaw thanks to you. Our first meeting in twenty years and you didn’t blink at the opportunity to take a swing at me. If I didn’t know it was a direct reflection of how badly I hurt you, I’d laugh. But I deserved it. I know that.

Despite my tears, I laugh—the first day we ran into each other at Fight Club.

I left Ledger a scared boy, thinking if I got away, I’d be able to sort out what happened. Maybe escape it. I was so sure you’d never forgive me for what I believed at the time was my fault. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve accepted it all for what it is—I tried to save Zeb and failed. I couldn’t have known what would come next. What events me calling the cops would set in motion. My only solace all these years later is that I did try. Sometimes, that has to be enough. Trying even when the results are failure.

I have a kid who reminds me of you a little bit—a spitfire through and through who hates me as much as loves me some days. I only dated her mom briefly, but she was an addict. I thought I could save her the way I couldn’t save Zeb. The way I’ve tried to save every addict I can’t. I had a partner call it a savior complex—he probably wasn’t wrong. Either way, I failed again. She killed a girl driving drunk and high and went to prison. The girl she killed was from, of all places, Ledger.

So, I’m here now, probably twenty years too late. I have no idea how I’ll ever give you this after seeing you today, but I’m hoping I do and you’ll read it. Hope you know I’ve missed you. Hope you’ll forgive me.

I’m going to try to do right by Zeb. I stopped by to see Glory and she’s as ornery as ever. In some small way, hearing her spin her tales and gripe about things the way she always has while she sucks down her Lucky made me feel like a kid again. Like I was just sitting on your living room sofa waiting for you or Zeb to finish getting ready so we couldgo to the lake.

If you’re reading this, I hope you forgive me. Even if we aren’t destined for anything more than what we were, I have no doubt, even now, I still love you. I probably will forever.

Ford

I read it—over and over—as if I’m trying to rewrite every memory of the last twenty years. I read it until my ringing phone pulls my eyes away from it.June.I send it to voicemail.

She calls back immediately; I answer with a sniffle.

“Joo, listen, I just found—”

“Scotty,” she says, frantic. “There’s been a shooting at the Fast Fuel. The one on Route 17.”

“Okay,” I say, confused. “Wha—”

“It’s Ford,” she fills in. “He’s been shot.”

Thirty

Icancountthenumber of times I’ve been to the Ledger hospital in the last twenty years on one hand. I hate it here. The smell. The lighting. The constant sound of a lung being hacked up in the background. It reeks of hopelessness and disinfectant.

June got the information on where Ford was through her network of Ledger know-it-alls and texted it to me on the drive. Outside of the exam room she sent me, I hear his voice through the cracked open door and relief floods through me. He’s alive enough to talk.

“Hurts like hell,” he says with a hint of amusement.

“And here? How’s this feel?” a male voice asks—my guess, a doctor.

Ford coughs, and it’s punctuated with pain. “Like a massage.”

I chuckle—so does the doctor—and push the door open.